


Take a First Step

by coolasdicks



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Eating Disorders, Gen, M/M, binge eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 21:31:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolasdicks/pseuds/coolasdicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt Fill:</p><p>"hey uhm, i’ve always liked the idea of eating disorder michael but i haven’t found one of him with binge eating disorder… can you write it with pairing AHOT6? I love you’re writing!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take a First Step

Michael’s teen years were rough on him.

His coworkers and boyfriends didn’t know it, but the redhead had suffered at the hands of multiple bullies for his rather nerdy, weak exterior, and he was easily influenced by his peers. How could he not be, after years and years listening to how terrible he was, how gay he looked, how dumb he talked.

It was late a seemingly random Friday night when Michael lost his head.

Spending his evening as per average ritual, he was standing in front of the mirror, staring at his bleak reflection. Hands rested on his belly, the image in front of him distorted not only by the tears building in his eyes, but by his mind.

Fat.  _Fat._

Michael didn’t think it was possible by the amount of how little he ate, but the proof was right fucking in front of him. Tears rolled down his chubby cheeks and he hated himself for crying.

It’d been six days off starvation for him after that, the days growing shorter and blurring together. The pain in his head and joints was well-deserved, in his opinion. His curly hair turned brittle and flat, his pallor gaunt and gray. His parents barely noticed, his bullies didn’t care.

The seventh day, however, felt different as soon as Michael woke up.

It was a dreary Thursday, the sun hiding behind a wall of puffy clouds. School was cancelled due to the cold, a heavy sheeting of snow barricading Michael in his home. He was relieved, but his stomach churned as he sat down at the kitchen table. His parents were off to work without a word to their son, leaving him staring mindlessly at the wall.

His skin crawled as he opened the fridge door, staring blankly at the enticing food. He couldn’t… he’s been so good.

Michael watched as a trembling, pale hand reached in and pulled out a loaf of bread, still squishy and soft.

All of it. He ate  _all of it._

He moved onto the leftover lasagna, devouring the entire two plates of the cheesy pasta before taking out a package of bologna sitting on the bottom shelf. It was gone in two seconds flat, Michael’s stomach gurgling with sick pleasure as the food moved down his esophagus.

The next two hours were spend sitting in front of the open fridge, robotically and systematically scouring for more – something to make him feel less empty inside.

His stomach distended past his jeans, the button tight and uncomfortable against the skin of his belly. He unbuttoned it and kept going, his teenage mind having left the building hours ago. His mouth hurt from chewing so much, and his chest was aching.

He couldn’t control himself, literally unable to move his own hands as they shoveled food throat at a breakneck speed.

The episode ended when Michael was halfway through a package of raw –  _fucking raw_ ground beef. His hand was gripping the squishy, blood meat tightly as if it might squirm free from his hand, but he stopped inches from his mouth. His dilated pupils fixed into pinpoints as nausea rolled in his tummy. Scrambling to his feet, he barely had time to make it to the bathroom before the contents in his stomach spilled from his mouth. Food, fresh and still resembling what it had looked like in the package, hit the towel bowl with loud splatters, some of the liquids even still cold.

His teenage mind was in turmoil, spinning out of control as he sobbed through the sick, wishing desperately for it to stop. The last of what he ate – the damn bread – finally came back up, soppy and smelling strongly of bile. Michael flushed the toilet for the fourth time, sniffing and wiping his runny nose. Shell-shocked, he curled up on the floor of the bathroom, the cold tile pressed against his wet cheeks.

He fell asleep to the sound of his own crying, and if his mom or dad came home that night, or saw him sleeping on the bathroom floor, they didn’t mention it.

—-

The episodes were sporadic through his teenage years, always the same sudden, painful loss of control that led him to eating half the fridge, always the familiar ache in his belly after it started to distend, and always the violent vomiting into the toilet bowl. He noticed that they often followed his bouts of fasting and in an attempt to stop them from happening, would simply just not eat as much all the time. He didn’t starve himself, but he quickly saw an improvement in the mirror. His binging, however, didn’t stop.

It started to slow down when he got out of high school. As his stress level decreased, so did the amount of panic attacks. He eased into a new personality, moving on from scared, pathetic little kid and onto brash, slightly annoying adult. He couldn’t help but by shy sometimes still, this frustrating trait evident when he moved to Austin to work with a company called Rooster Teeth. Eventually, however, he did indeed come out of his shell with his coworkers. He finally felt at home, happy, and himself when he settled into a comfortable relationship with the five other males.

It was almost an entire year into his relationship when he slipped up.

They often berated and verbally abused each other, albeit jokingly, but sometimes it did indeed lead to hurt feelings. Usually, it was easily made up at home instead of the office, most of the frustration with one another let out in bedroom, but it was rare that something cut deep.

And when it did, Michael knew Gavin didn’t mean it.

That didn’t stop him from dwelling on it later that day, wondering, as he grabbed a coke from the fridge, if he was a ‘fatty’ as the Brit had put it. The doubt settled heavy on his mind as he returned to the office, everyone quietly working on editing. Gavin was eating the rest of the Rice Crispy that Michael had brought in for him earlier, having eaten half of it during the recording. It was then that Gavin had commented on Michael’s possession of two of the marshmallow-y squares, fondly calling the redhead a ‘big fatty’.

The words hadn’t fazed him at the time, but as he dug into the first Rice Crispy Treat, he had felt a little sick, the strong sweet flavor no longer pleasing his taste buds. He didn’t eat the second one, instead half-heartedly giving it to Ray saying that he wasn’t hungry anymore.

“You sure?” Ray had asked, eyeballing the tasty treat and licking his lips.

Michael laughed. “I already had two,” he said, tossing the snack into Ray’s lap. Turning back to his computer, he went to work editing a Minigolf Let’s play and was finished by the time five o’clock rolled around. His stomach was rumbling as he stood and stretched, chatting happily with his boyfriends as he grabbed his backpack and followed them out of the office.

Michael buckled into the van, his stomach gurgling unhappily. He pressed the heel of his palm into it, but it was too late. Ryan glanced over, laughing.

“Hungry, Michael?” Ryan teased.

Michael laughed uneasily. He felt the familiar hunger pangs stab at his abdomen and started to sweat, an old, distressing feeling creeping into the back of his mind. He fought it back to answer Ryan’s questioning gaze when he didn’t answer. “Er – no, not really.”

Ryan’s smile faded when he cocked an eyebrow. “You  _sound_ hungry,” he said, obviously confused. “I can hear your stomach growling.”

“I’m not hungry,” Michael reassured him as Jack pulled out of the parking lot. He felt queasy. “In fact, I kind of have a stomach ache.”

Ryan nodded in understanding, looking sympathetic.

Gavin, however, felt no pity for the redhead. Leaning forward, he wrapped a hand around Michael’s stomach pushed, giggling. “Does little Michael have a tummy ache?”

It didn’t really hurt since Michael didn’t actually have a stomach ache, but it annoyed him. He pinched the hairy skin on Gavin’s arm, hard, drawing a yelp from the Brit. Pulling back hastily, Gavin cradled his arm and glared at him.

“That really hurt, Michael,” Gavin pouted.

“Then don’t touch me,” Michael said simply, turning back around. Gavin didn’t mess with him the rest of the drive.

He got home and went straight to bed, his fingers twitching with the urge to get up and stick them down his throat, but he fought it until he felt the bed dip with the weight of someone crawling under the covers with him. He felt a sigh against his neck and recognized it was Ray when a scratchy cheek rubbed up on his back. Gentle hands hugged him around the waist, pulling Michael into a nice little-spoon position. As the rest of the guys came to bed, he fell asleep to the sound of Ray’s breathing and hums of content.

It was his longest stint ever. More severe than any sort of starvation period in his youth, he found food almost inedible in his mouth, spitting it back up after excusing himself from meals. He began to avoid sitting around the dinner table with his boyfriends, unable to stand seeing the concern etched onto their faces as he stared unseeingly at his plate. They didn’t comment on his absence, and Michael couldn’t decide if that was worse or better.

It went on for weeks, and while Michael didn’t dare touch a scale, he could see the benefits in the mirror. His hipbones were sharp against his skin, his arms slender and thin. His neck even looked slimmer.

The others had to notice his constant mood swings, but they were probably none-the-wiser concerning his weight loss. Michael had always been a fan of baggy jeans, and even if his shirts hung off his frame, it wasn’t a drastic difference. Their time in the bedroom was minimal, as Michael often didn’t have the energy for sex, but the others made sure to involve him regardless, often with blowjobs or fingering. It was a sweet gesture, but as his weight rapidly fell, he was afraid that they were going to notice and confront him.

Going to work was a particular hassle. Michael had to be the last in the bathroom to get last shower in order to shower alone, making the rest of his morning a hurried rush to be on time. Despite his boss literally living withhim and being his ride, Geoff wouldn’t tolerate being late everyday.

“Michael!” Gavin yelled, pounding on the door. The redhead jumped, almost losing his grip on the body wash. “Hurry up, you pleb, I have to shower, too!”

Michael paled. “I thought you already showered!” he shouted back, hurriedly forgoing the soap and turning off the water. He snatched the towel from the rack and dried off, almost groaning when he saw he hadn’t brought his clean clothes into the bathroom with him.

“No,” Gavin said from the other side of the door, saying the word slowly as if Michael was dumb. “I was – uh –”

“Sleepy morning sex!” Ray called, voice muffled.

Michael speedily got ready, brushing his teeth and not bothering to brush his hair. His scalp hurt lately anyway, and the bristled always made his eyes water. “Gav?” Michael said quietly, hoping for no answer.

“Are you done yet?” he heard Gavin ask excitedly. Michael stood in front of the door fearfully, his wish that Gavin had left crushed. The doorknob jiggled. “Michael! I need to bloody get ready!”

“Okay, okay,” Michael said, his voice shaking. He covered as much of his body as he could with the towel and opened the door, darting from the steamy room as fast as possible. Gavin grumbled and slammed the door behind him, the shower starting up not seconds later.

Michael breathed a sigh of relief and dropped his towel to dry his hair more thoroughly. He plucked a pair of clean boxers from his pile in the dressers.

A quiet, soft-spoken word from the doorway made him freeze. “Michael?”

He whipped around, standing fully nude in front of Jack. The briefs in his hand covered his junk from view, but there was nothing he could do about the rest of his gross body.

Jack looked stunned, hand slipping off the doorknob. He moved forward slowly, appraising the younger’s body as if viewing a wild animal. His eyes raked up and down before landing on Michael’s face, the bearded man’s expression traumatized.

Michael flushed, snatching his towel from the bed and covering his front with it. “Do you mind, Jack?” he snapped.

“Michael,” Jack just said, holding his palms out. Michael didn’t move as he stepped closer, Jack towering over him. It didn’t scare him, but his heart began beating frantically. He held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut to block the tears from building when he felt Jack’s warm, careful hands hover over his waist, flesh pulled tight across his hipbones. His skin jumped when Jack touched the sides of his ribcage, the bones like ripples in the water of his pale flesh.

He thumbed the concave gaps in Michael’s rib cage, no more healthy fat to cover the bones. Jack’s hands caressed his fragile body, palming Michael’s pointy hips before coming back up to feel along his sternum, brushing against his protruding collar bone and lightly touching the bones of his shoulders. Michael almost didn’t notice the tear slip down his cheek.

“Can I get dressed now?” Michael whispered into the space between the two. His voice wavered.

“Michael –” Jack started and  _no, no, no._ He was adopting that stupid tone of voice that Ray and Geoff always had when calming the redhead down. He couldn’t deal with the motherly instincts the three possessed.

Michael stepped away from Jack, shaking his head. His lower lip trembled as he pulled on his boxers, the elastic not doing a very good job at gripping his waist. Yanking on his jeans, he almost tripped on his way out of the room, shirt only halfway down his chest.

Jack didn’t follow him out of the room. Storming into the kitchen, Michael felt his stomach twist at the smell of food.

“Michael?”

He ignored Geoff’s curious inquiry and slammed the front door behind him, his insides feeling as if they were beginning to rot. His skin burned where Jack had touched him, the gentle trail seared into his flimsy flesh.

They had work today. Michael couldn’t just run off into the neighborhood, so he waited patiently in the car, arms crossed where he sat in his seat, trying to stem the flow of tears from his eyes. He was just wiping up the last of the moisture when the front door opened, and everyone else ambled out, Gavin’s hair still shiny from the hair gel.

Oddly enough, no one said anything. They quietly got in the van, the drive to work utterly silent. Jack didn’t look at Michael even once, a fact that worried but relieved him. He didn’t know if he could bear seeing whatever Jack was feeling echoed in his eyes.

Kara, who was sitting at the reception desk, gave them an odd look when they entered the building. There was a noticeable hush between the six men, even more evident when they took their seats and turned on their monitors.

They didn’t record anything all day. Michael supposed it was a catch up day. He didn’t partake in any of the conversation passed around the room, Ray, Michael, and Gavin falling back into a more normal routine almost immediately. Geoff and Ryan followed, but Jack was reserved throughout the day. No one attempted to pull him into a conversation, the brooding look on his face scary enough to thwart any jokes or passes.

The ride back was much more talkative. Michael smiled and laughed, unsure of whether or not he was genuinely feeling better, but at least his bad mood was gone. It was easy to forget that Jack was mad at him when the bearded man was the driver, up front and out of sight.

Dinner was similar. Out of fear of Jack actually confronting him, Michael forced down whatever was on his plate, leaving a few green beans in quiet rebellion. He washed his plate along with the rest and settled down in between Ray and Geoff to watch a movie. Jack sat with a sober expression in the armchair.

He finally broke when the rest of the guys went to bed. It was quiet in the living room, darkness spilling in from the windows. The TV was turned off, Michael instead staring at the wall in front of him. Thoughts, both vicious and calming, battled within his mind, but on the outside he was comatose.

He blinked and found himself standing in front of the fridge. Opened cans of various food items were carelessly tossed all around him, their contents gone. His stomach was hurting, but he couldn’t stop himself as he reached forward to pick up an old plate of pizza, probably expired. He still couldn’t stop himself from peeling off the cling wrap. Or from lifting the slice to his mouth. Or swallowing.

Light from the fridge spilled out in front of him as he ate, and ate, and ate. His stomach cramped and twinged in weak protest, but Michael couldn’t help but keep going until the fridge was mostly cleaned out. Nastily enough, he even ate some of the mayonnaise out of the jar.

The gross and slimy texture on his tongue caused his gag reflex to flare up, and like that the spell was broken. Jumping to his feet, he held both hands to his mouth while sprinting to the bathroom, not really making it in time and spewing undigested chunks of food before he could properly situate himself in front of the toilet.

He was an unfortunately loud puker.

Hands on his back made him cry. He couldn’t see through the tears blurring his vision, but voices spoke in soft tones to him, words of comfort surrounding him. He could barely breathe, the air he sucked in between heaves spoiled with the intense taste of bile. His nose burned and stomach rebelled, expelling every piece of food until he was left dry heaving.

The roaring in his ears died down enough for him to hear familiar voices cooing to him, murmuring encouragements.

“There we go,” Ray was humming. “There we go. You’re done, it’s over, you’re okay.”

“Shh, shh,” Geoff whispered. Michael could tell his hand was the one rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s okay.”

He gasped for breath, pressing his cheek to the seat, facing away from the others. He opened his eyes and tried futilely to blink away the tears. His stomach was screaming at him, rolling in discomfort. He wiped sweaty hands on his jeans before picking his head up from the toilet, wiping his cheeks and forehead, pretending that he was brushing away sweat, not tears.

“Hello, love,” Ryan said in a low, soft voice. He held Michael’s hair away from his forehead. He didn’t seem to be checking his temperature, and Michael was scared to know why.

Michael avoided meeting their eyes, but when he looked towards the doorway, he instantly caught Gavin’s gaze. The Brit was looking at him with something akin to mistrust, and Michael was shocked to see his eyes looking a little watery. Gavin  _never_ cried.

Someone had cleaned up the vomit during Michael’s episode. The entire bathroom smelled like an odd mixture of food, which was not exactly bad because none of the contents Michael had thrown up had been digested, and bleach. Some of the vomit in the bowl still looked exactly what it had looked like going in.

Michael flushed the toilet with a weak arm, feeling shaky and like a wreck. He could barely keep from crying, having to furiously blink to keep the tears from falling.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

“C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up,” someone was saying, a firm pair of hands helping him to his feet. It was Geoff, whose face was oddly distant. His expression betrayed none of what he was feeling as he aided Michael over to the sink.

Michael wordlessly took the toothbrush offered to him and brushed the barf out of his teeth, making sure to scrub his tongue extra hard. When the sharp taste of stomach acid was gone from his mouth, he looked into the mirror, barely seeing himself as he stared into Jack’s eyes. The bearded man was standing behind him, brow furrowed deeply and eyes red. He looked sorrowfully at Michael for a long moment before Michael had to look away.

“Mouthwash,” Geoff reminded him, holding out a small cup of the blue liquid.

It was almost an hour later Michael was led into the bathroom, Geoff’s hand on the small of his back a stern guide to where he was going. Michael didn’t object, exhausted and falling face first onto the bed with a light  _oof!_

Ray and Gavin were already laying there together, up by the headboard. Their conversation ground to a halt when Michael and Geoff entered, both of the younger men’s faces pale and tired. Ray scooted down towards Michael.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, rubbing a hand down Michael’s back. Michael was sure that he could feel the bones of his spine sticking out and wanted to punch himself.

“Tired,” Michael said into the comforter. “Bed?”

Ray shared a look with Geoff. “Not quite yet,” Geoff answered as Ryan and Jack entered the room, closing the door behind them. “Michael?”

Michael took a deep breath. “What?”

There was a long pause, but Gavin was the one to whisper the words. “Do you have an eating disorder?”

Michael was quiet. “Can’t this wait until the morning?” he said, voice dull and muffled.

They knew him too well. “No,” Ryan said firmly. “Because then it’ll never be said.”

Michael buried his face into the sheets, feeling the bed shift with the weight of everyone taking a seat. For as loud and rowdy he was during work hours, in that moment he hated being the center of attention. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him. On his gross body.

“No,” Michael lied, feeling the fabric under his face warm with freshly falling tears.

“Michael,” Ray said in a soft but reprimanding tone.

“No, I don’t,” Michael insisted. He rolled his head over to look at Ray. “I just eat a lot sometimes.”

There was a whisper somewhere in the room, between who Michael wasn’t sure.

“That’s called binging, Michael,” Ryan said as gently as possible.

Michael squeezed his eyes closed. “I know what it’s called,” he admitted, fists twisting in the sheets.

No one touched him, careful to keep their distance. Michael was grateful – he was about to fly apart at the seams.

“I can’t control it,” he said in a weak voice.

“We can help you,” Gavin volunteered without taking a breath. “We’ll help you, Michael.”

Michael bit back a sob. This wasn’t happening. “I don’t need help,” Michael lied. “I just need it to stop.”

There was a pause where everyone just looked helpless and small. Jack was the one to finally speak up. “You can’t do it on your own.”

The words were harsh, and Michael could feel the bed shift when Ray moved to give Jack a slap on the arm, but he was right. Obviously, Michael wasn’t succeeding in beating this thing. He choked on a sob.

“I can,” he said desperately, hiding his face further. “I have to.”

“You don’t,” Ray said softly. “Let us help you.”

Michael took a shuddering breath.

“We’re here for you, Michael,” Geoff said, and Michael felt the thud on his back when Geoff leaned forward and put his head on the small of his spine. He wondered if it was uncomfortable. “We’re right here.”

They could barely sleep that night, restless and wired. Michael felt no better about his circumstances, but he had a strange sense of distant comfort. He knew he would get out of this. He had five boyfriends who loved and cared for him, even with his craziness.

So even with the haunting aspect of healing lingering on the edge of his mind, and even though he knew the recovery process would take ages and was bitch of a speed bump, Michael woke up that morning feeling like perhaps – just  _maybe…_ he could survive the world.


End file.
